


Law of Averages

by PunkHazard



Category: Eyeshield 21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sakuraba doesn't play football anymore and neither does Unsui. In hindsight, they have plenty in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Law of Averages

“It was,” Sakuraba mutters as he finishes the story of how he’d once chased after Shin in the rain, looking as though he really wishes he could wipe the episode from memory, “pretty embarrassing! I don’t even want to know what Shin thought of me after.” Then he falls silent, looking over the rim of his glass at Unsui’s face.

The other man says nothing, only dropping his gaze to the table in front of them, his hands folded neatly on its surface, calloused fingers gently interlaced. Very zen, Sakuraba thinks feverishly, face already flushed from the half-glass of beer he’d downed; He might have loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, but Unsui still looks every inch a monk.

“I wanted to be him,” Sakuraba continues, “I mean, what player didn’t?”

“I,” Unsui says at last, a small smile quirking understandingly at the corners of his lips, “wanted to be Agon. And you.”

Sakuraba waits for him to continue, but Unsui doesn’t– only takes a sip of his beer and reaches for another skewer of yakitori. The izakaya they’d picked is quiet and dimly-lit, no fans in the vicinity so Sakuraba doesn’t take too many pains to be discreet about his identity. He hadn’t expected to run into Unsui on the train, but the other man was on his way home from a meeting in Tokyo and Sakuraba had just finished up a photoshoot. It never hurts to grab dinner and a drink with old rivals.

“Me?” he prompts instead. Sakuraba has never forgotten their conversation at Ohjo’s cultural festival, but he hadn’t understood, then, what Unsui meant and he’d never worked up the nerve to ask. “I mean, your brother makes sense, but me…”

“Agon’s strength,” Unsui explains, his expression painfully sincere, “your tenacity.”

“I was always looking at you, too.” Sakuraba plays it off with a sheepish laugh, looking down. Takami-senpai and the coach both had nothing but praise for Unsui; his technique, his skill, his strength were all at the peak for any player who lacked superhuman ability. “That conviction, you know? Ahah, but in the end, we could only be ourselves.”

His voice tastes like bitter resentment, faded into resignation even after all these years, with a thriving modelling career under his belt. Unsui would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the same, but he straightens his posture and spreads his arms, palms up in a gesture of acceptance. “I,” he says, “have learned since then that we’re not such bad people to be.”

Sakuraba’s eyes widen and he looks up at Unsui through criminally long lashes before he ducks his head further, laughing softly. “You’re right. I don’t want to be anyone else.”

Unsui tips his glass slightly on its base to bump its rim against Sakuraba’s, then lifts it to his lips to drain. “To ordinary players.”

“To–” Sakuraba pauses as he lifts his own cup, then nods to himself. “To us.”


End file.
